


Sweet Surrender

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: Angels, Blood, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joey grows wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> For Hammerhead, for the 2003 Secret Santa Exchange (Don We Now Our Gay Apparel). This was actually an idea I had a while back, but got stuck in stasis because I couldn't think of an ending. My many thanks to lemniskate67 for helping me plot the story out. Title from the Sarah McLachlan song.

For a long time afterward, Chris would remember the first time he saw them. It was also the first time he saw Joey take off his shirt, which was itself not an unmemorable moment. The group had to change for a photo shoot; Joey had waited for everyone else to go into one room before slipping alone into the second changing room. Confused, Chris had gone looking for him, padding across the hall into the other small room without knocking.

He figured it was no big deal since they'd all been living together for three months now and personal space was a serious thing of the past. The last thing he'd expected to see, on pushing the door open, was Joey's bare back -- no, that wasn't true. Joey's bare back, long and lean and smooth-skinned, muscled, was a very pleasant, if expected, sight. What he hadn't expected to see were the novel decorations marking Joey's sharp shoulderblades: shimmery, light-hued patches that appeared feathery in texture.

This observation only took place over the space of a heartbeat, because as soon as he'd heard the door swing open, Joey had turned around, gasping and clutching his tee-shirt to his chest. "Shit!" he gasped. "Jesus, Chris, you scared the crap out of me."

Chris pushed the door closed and reached for Joey's arm. "Dude, you've got something on your back."

Joey went white under his tan, pulling away from Chris. "It's--it's all right," he stumbled. "I'll get it. You should go finish getting changed."

"Joey," Chris said, gently, and Joey, now red-faced, let Chris turn him around. His back was stiff and tense, but he let out a trembling sigh when Chris touched his shoulderblade, drew gentle fingers over one patch of feathers. That was what they were, there was no denying; soft and pearl-colored and fluttery under his fingertips.

"What is this?" he asked at last.

"No one really knows," Joey said. "I've just always had them. I guess I was born with 'em. My mom used to say it's because I'm an angel, but, uhh, she kinda quit saying that after I broke this statuette of hers wrestling with Steve." He craned backwards, attempting to look over his shoulder without success. "They didn't used to be so big, though," he noted.

"Maybe you're growing wings," Chris mused. "That's gonna fuck up the plan for world domination."

Joey went scarlet again. "I need to change," he muttered. "Get out of here." As a laughing Chris headed for the door, Joey added, "Umm, Chris? Don't-- It's not a big deal, please, but. Don't tell the others?"

Chris paused at the door, nodding at Joey. "I won't," he promised, and then slipped out.

* * *

Chris liked knowing about this peculiarity of Joey's. They'd always been friends, in a casual, comfortable way, but now they had something that only the two of them knew about, and it seemed to make everything a little more relaxed between them. Joey held himself a bit stiffly for a while, as if afraid that Chris's promise wouldn't last beyond the photo shoot, but Chris had remained mute on the matter and Joey breathed easier.

Chris rearranged the sleeping arrangements after a week in Germany, because JC woke up at the slightest sound, and Chris couldn't sleep in silence, and he could tell that Joey was lonely in the single. He told himself he was looking at the feathers when Joey came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around him; he was looking at the moisture, dewy on the babyfine softness covering Joey's shoulderblades, not at the deep groove of his spine and the way it disappeared into a shadowy valley below the towel's edge.

Then there was the night Joey said he couldn't sleep; they'd done a showcase and two other performances that day, and Joey was wound up and unable to relax, which Chris could understand after the scolding Lou had given him for messing up a few steps in two songs. A couple of glasses of whisky hadn't helped; finally, Chris crawled into bed with him and curled up behind him, shushing Joey's halfhearted protests. He stroked the feathers until Joey's breathing grew steady and deep, and then he stumbled into the bathroom to masturbate. As he came, gasping, he was more glad than ever that Joey slept like the dead.

* * *

"They're getting bigger," he remarked absently one day, while Joey was buttoning his jeans, facing the mirror. Joey glanced up, an eyebrow arched at Chris in the mirror, and then turned to inspect the reflection of his back as best he could.

"They are," he commented. "Shit."

"Do they hurt?" Chris asked, getting up from where he'd been folded on the bed, reading the paper, and coming over to Joey's side.

"No, not really. There's like, the skin is more sensitive underneath, so it itches sometimes, but that's about it." He bit his lip, reaching back to trace the outline of one patch of feathers as much as he could. Without thinking, Chris reached up and finished the line Joey's hand had begun, his touch sensual and light. Joey shook a little before stepping away.

"They're waiting for us," he said, reaching for his shirt. Swallowing, Chris nodded and went to put his shoes on.

* * *

He knew the minute they started hurting him, because Joey cried out in his sleep and then jerked upright, shaking. Chris had been watching TV with the volume on low; he turned, heart in his throat, and saw Joey with sweat beaded on his forehead. "What is it?" he said, getting up and kneeling on the bed next to Joey. Joey's hands were fisted in the sheets. Chris pried one loose and clamped it over his hand.

"My back," Joey said. Chris put a hand on Joey's shoulder and turned him, gasping when he saw the thin dark line of blood running down Joey's back.

"Lean forward," he said. "Just breathe." He got up and grabbed the box of tissues and then, after a moment's thought, a couple of towels from the bathroom. Joey had his forehead pressed to his knees, trembling hard, and when Chris sat down behind him again he saw two lines of blood. He wadded up some tissues and wiped up the blood; Joey hissed when Chris's ministrations moved up to the lowest point of one of the feather-patches, and Chris reached over to turn the light on.

He could see clearly that the skin was broken, though there seemed to be a lot less blood than he'd expect from that sort of thing. Underneath, as if they had been pressing through and finally freed themselves, thin, strong lines of feathers pushed out, the supporting musculature curved sharply into what Chris could only guess were the bases, or the stalks, or whatever it was called where wings attached to the body. Most of it was still beneath the skin, distorting the smooth lines of his back.

"What is it?" Joey asked shakily.

Chris bit his lip and began cleaning the other side. "I think whatever these are, they're growing," he said, and Joey moaned and put his hands in his head.

"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, this is. This is so bad."

"It's all right," Chris murmured soothingly, as another shudder of pain rippled through Joey. The sound of tearing skin was clear this time, the wings ripping themselves out by some unconscious intent, and he whimpered in sympathy with his friend as Joey curled his hands around his ankles. "I'll tell the others you're sick or something. Get Lou off our backs for a few days."

"But then what?" Joey whispered, his voice weak. Chris got up, pressing an absent kiss to Joey's shoulder, and rummaged in his bag for some Tylenol.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Here," and he offered the bottle to Joey. "I'll go get some water. Maybe it won't be that bad."

* * *

Lou, naturally, wasn't convinced that Joey was sick. He insisted that he was just faking it to try and get out of gigs. When Justin nearly jumped on him, JC held him back. Lou insisted on seeing Joey; Chris had anticipated this possibility and had prepared Joey just in case. Joey didn't have much faking to do; he was already sweating and weak from the pain of whatever these things ripping themselves out of his back were, so Lou just glanced over him laying in bed -- more than a little uncomfortable on his back, but there was nothing to be done for it -- and shook his head, grumbling as though Joey had done this deliberately to inconvenience him.

Chris followed him out, closing the door behind them. The others were waiting in the hallway, and as Lou made his way down the corridor, Justin turned to Chris, his eyes scared. "What's wrong with him, man?"

"He's just sick," Chris said, hating to lie to Justin but not knowing what else to do. "He's contagious, but, uh, I've had it, so you should just stay out of there and I'll take care of him. He'll be fine in a couple of days."

"Contagious with what?" Justin's eyes snapped, challenging. "Dude, come on, let us in, you can't keep him locked up in there."

"I'm serious, it's not a good idea--" Chris tried to stop him as Justin lunged for the door, but it was too late; Justin had surprise and the force of momentum on his side, and the door flew open before Chris could prevent it. JC was babbling something about calling a doctor when Justin gave a screech that effectively shut him up.

"What the fuck?!" Justin yelped.

Chris pushed past him into the room. Joey had rolled over to face the far wall, so that the destruction of his back, bloody, skin rent, was clearly evident, but he sat up at Justin's shout, white under the feverish flush of his skin.

"Fine," Chris hissed. "Come inside, but fucking be quiet, you guys." JC and Lance filed in, and as they took in the sight of Joey, shock spread over their faces in matching expressions.

Joey was starting to look embarrassed; he turned toward them, gathering the covers up to himself, so that they couldn't see his back. "You guys," he said plaintively. Chris reached for Justin's shoulder; Justin had stopped a few feet into the room, frozen, but he flinched away from Chris's touch.

"We don't know what it is," Chris said quietly, hurt. "It's, uh. I think Joey might be growing wings, but--"

"No way, no fucking way." Justin wiped his mouth. Joey blanched.

"You know, maybe you could talk about me somewhere else?" he said, raggedly, and Justin turned around suddenly and strode for the door, two high spots of color on his cheeks. He flung it open and disappeared; a moment later, still pale himself, JC turned, giving Chris a sympathetic look, and went after him.

Chris stepped back towards the entranceway, where the doorway to the bathroom partially blocked off the view of the room, and sank against the wall. Lance followed him after a moment, his eyes on the door through which Justin and JC had just departed.

"He'll be OK," Lance said dismissively, before turning to look at Chris again. Chris bit his lip, staring at the floor for a moment, and Lance reached out, touching Chris's arm. "Don't worry about Justin, Chris, JC will take care of him. What about Joey?"

Chris shook his head and said, softly, "I don't know."

* * *

They ended up getting a week free, because Lou, despite his initial yelling, apparently genuinely was concerned about Joey. Chris suspected that it had something to do with the time Justin had collapsed after a performance and Lynn had screamed at him that she was taking Justin home, contract or no contract. Phyllis Fatone might not be here, but Chris would play bulldog for her, and for her son, come hell or high water.

Two days later, the worst of the pain had subsided. Joey had been bearing it stoically, but Chris could see the paleness in his face, the tightly-wound strain, and knew the toll it was taking on him. When he woke from yet another of the many short naps he'd been drifting off in, he asked Chris to let the others in. Chris took a few minutes to clean him up, first; Joey'd been sweating, the smell of it powerful in the small room, commingled with the sharp scent of blood and a strange, faint, rainy fragrance. As Chris knelt behind Joey with a wet towel, dabbing at the torn skin, he surveyed the damage.

"I think it's starting to heal," he commented. Joey grunted. Around the -- around where they emerged from his shoulderblades, the skin was beginning to dry, and shreds of dead skin came off with the towel's steady pressure.

"Doesn't hurt as much," Joey said. "Is it -- are they bleeding?" He craned his head back, trying to see.

"Not a lot." Chris rubbed the towel closer to the broken skin, noting with a detached sort of fascination how the muscle seemed to fit naturally into Joey's back, joining the strong toned muscles as if shaped that way. "Actually, I think you're going to heal pretty cleanly."

Joey made a soft noise and dropped his head. Chris placed a hand on his shoulder for a moment, trying to think of something reassuring to say; but it was hard when he felt the overwhelming urge to touch Joey's spine, draw his fingers down between the softening feathers. He hadn't thought it possible for Joey to become more attractive, but now Joey was exotic and strange, like a rare, beautiful creature that might bolt if Chris got too close.

"Why don't you -- go get the others?" Joey murmured, and Chris jolted up with a gasp that he managed, barely, to contain. He hadn't been aware of how thick the silence had grown, or of the fact that he'd been staring. Sick fucking bastard, he thought and tossed the towel into the bathroom.

"Back in a minute," he said.

* * *

"Just -- keep it easy, OK? He's still pretty fucked up," Chris said, his hand on the door.

JC nodded, and Lance and Justin echoed it. Chris swallowed and turned, opening the door to let them in. Joey had turned on a couple more lights; he sat up in bed, sheets gathered around his waist and a weak smile on his face. He looked like shit, Chris thought sadly, the weariness and fatigue of battling with these things coming out of his back showing in every slumped line of his body, and his skin grey and ashen from exhaustion and pain.

"Hey, guys," he said.

JC moved over to sit on Chris's bed, across from Joey. "How are you, man? We've been worried."

Joey shook his head, chuckling a little. "Good as I can be, given..." He turned a little, displaying his back to the others; they drew a collective gasp at the sight of it, so much cleaner and smoother, a drastic departure from their first shocking glimpse.

Some dried blood remained in the pearly feathers -- Chris hadn't tried cleaning them yet, afraid of hurting Joey -- but they were beginning to fill out, strong and wide, the longest feathers already at least eight or nine inches from base to tip. Snowy white, like dove's wings, they glittered pearly-sweet in the light; each arched smoothly, up and away from Joey's back, following the powerful arc of his shoulder. When he was fully healed, Chris thought, they'd be magnificent.

He'd spent so long caring for Joey that he'd become jaded to the sight, so he was momentarily taken aback by the awe in Justin's eyes, the wonder in Lance's. Then JC reached over to touch a long feather along the outside edge of one wing, the feather trembling independently of Joey, it seemed, and Chris felt a sudden bitter stab of jealousy.

"Don't--" Joey jerked back, away from JC's fingers. "They still hurt," he said softly.

"They're real," Justin said. "I didn't -- I mean, when Chris told us--" He tossed an apologetic look Chris's way, and Chris shrugged, more than willing to be magnanimous now that they weren't touching Joey.

"I know. It's pretty fucking crazy. And -- I mean, I know they're gonna heal, but I don't know what we'll do after that. I -- I can't just make like they're a costume." Joey scratched a stubbly jaw, his wings twitching; Chris was reminded suddenly of a dog thumping its leg while getting scratched.

JC patted Joey's knee soothingly. "We'll figure it out, man. Don't worry about that stuff, OK? Just work on getting better."

Joey nodded, but he was still looking down, at the pooled sheets in his lap. It wasn't until Lance sat down next to him on the bed, his face grave, that Joey looked up.

Quietly, Lance said, "They're beautiful." Chris thought his heart might break.

* * *

"Lance was right," he whispered later into the darkness. He knew Joey was still awake; his breathing hadn't evened out yet.

"Huh?" Joey finally said. The silence stretched heavy between them.

Chris lay on his side, gazing at Joey, his eyes comfortable with the dark. A wing lifted free of the covers behind Joey, casting a pale shadow over Joey's long face.

"Your wings," Chris said. "They are beautiful. I -- I wanted to tell you."

"Oh," Joey said quietly.

Stillness descended over them again, the heavy muffling quiet of midnight and darkness. A few background sounds faintly disturbed the silence: traffic, a few floors down; someone coughing in the next room; faint thump of a stereo somewhere nearby.

"Chris?" Joey whispered.

"Yeah?" Even as he said it, Chris swore to himself: he sounded like an overeager kid.

"Can I, uh." The blackness of the room had the hushed sanctity of a confessional. "Can I come over there?"

Chris wordlessly pulled the covers back, not trusting his voice anymore, and watched Joey slide out of his own bed, crossing the narrow distance; he rested a knee on Chris's mattress for a moment. Then the bed creaked, shifted as Joey laid down, unconsciously careful to rest on his side, wings fluttering pale and fragile as moths behind him.

He'd taken a shower after the others had left, and he smelled clean, faintly soapy, but with that strange underlying scent of rain and something wild tickling at Chris's senses. The angel thing, Chris thought, wasn't too far off. The wings shone a dull grey now, still pearly but dimmed, and when Chris reached up to draw his finger over the sloping wing's edge, Joey gave a slow trembling sigh.

"Joey," Chris breathed.

Joey closed his eyes and leaned in, nose bumping Chris's, so close his breath warmed Chris's cheek. "Chris," he said, voice pitched low but ragged, somehow, straining with untold tension. Chris raised searching eyes to Joey's tense, tired face, and with a mental curse, tipped his mouth to Joey's.

For a moment Chris let himself go, let everything go but the hot sweet taste of Joey, slick tongue sleeking, dancing over Chris's lips in a pattern guaranteed to make Chris forget his name. He struggled out of it while an inner animal-voice asked what the hell he thought he was doing, ending a kiss like that.

"Joe," he gasped. His breath had gone shallow. _One kiss_ , he thought with a mental grumble, _one kiss does this, what will sex be like_? Joey was silent, eyes pleading, luminous and begging for things Chris could taste on his tongue, he wanted so badly. "What is this?" he asked, ignoring the lizard-voice now shouting in his head: 'Sex now, talk later!'

Joey's voice came out low, rough. "You've. You. It's you, Chris, the way you touch me. I need you. Please."

"Why." Chris had to clear his throat; the touch of Joey's hand on his arm nearly undid him. "Why didn't you let JC touch your wings? You said they hurt."

"They do." Joey pressed closer, closer, until his forehead bumped Chris's. "But I don't care, not when you touch me, I don't care."

 _Fuck it_ , Chris thought, or maybe mumbled, and his fingers curled around Joey's nape to bring their mouths together again. Joey moaned, and Chris thought maybe he was insane, but it sounded like music.

* * *

It was the light that woke Chris, the light and the faint song of bells. A moment after the oddity of it registered in his subconscious, he jolted into full awakeness as Joey's fingers dug into his arm. He let out a yelp: "Jesus, Joe, what the--"

The look in Joey's eyes shut him up immediately: Joey was white with fright, but more, Chris thought with a dull horror, he thought he could see the corners of the room through Joey's face.

"Hold on, Chris, hold on to me, fuck, don't let me go," Joey panted in a breathy, high-pitched voice, scared-sounding. He was shaking. Chris yanked Joey down against him, gasping something under his breath, a prayer, a plea for help, an imprecation against whatever the fuck was trying to take Joey away from him now. Not now, not fucking now. He closed his eyes and held on tight, feeling nothing but anger now: Joey was _not_ going to be taken away from him, not after this. Even though they'd only spent a little while kissing hotly before exhaustion had claimed them both, he knew that the sparks between them were the start of something real, and he had no intention of giving it up this soon.

At last Joey gave a sobbing gasp and his grip on Chris eased; he sank down as if the weight of the world bore down on him. Chris let his arms slide loose, dared to open his eyes again: but Joey was solid and real in his arms, and Chris sighed in relief and stroked Joey's back, from where the wings emerged down to the base of his spine. "You're OK, it's OK," he whispered. "I've got you, I've got you."

Joey trembled in Chris's embrace, but it wasn't the fearful feel from before, so Chris pressed his lips into Joey's hair and kept up his low murmuring until he felt Joey go utterly slack, sleep claiming his fatigued body. Chris didn't sleep again, though, too fraught with tension and determined besides to keep a vigilant watch over his friend.

* * *

"So what do you think it was?" he asked later, after Justin had swung by with breakfast and a large part of the care package he'd just received from home: magazines, chocolate and candy, some new comics; all of it a silent apology for his behavior. Chris kept his tone deliberately casual, not wanting to freak Joey out.

"Don't know," Joey said, mouth full of food. He swallowed, took a long drink of water, and shrugged, the wings soft and still behind him. "I just -- it was too freaking weird. I'd woken up, I was laying there and suddenly, it was like I felt something grabbing at me, pulling at me. And I saw I could see through my hand, and, y'know."

"Yeah, that was fuckin' messed up." Chris was laying on his own bed, since the narrow twin beds provided by the hotel were too small to do things like curl up around your -- lover? boyfriend? hot guy who you can't wait to fuck? -- and laze in bed eating breakfast. Besides, they weren't quite at that stage yet, and he figured he could be over there in record time if Joey started disappearing again. "But you still felt pretty solid, I guess if you'd gone any more I probably wouldn't have been able to hold on."

Joey nodded, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Chris had to swallow hard; the gesture was pure obscenity. "I think so, yeah. And I couldn't hear your voice, or anything, and -- all that light, and the music?"

"Music?" Chris arched an eyebrow. He'd caught the sound of bells, like a carillon in the distance, but he wasn't sure he'd go so far as to call that music.

"Yeah." Joey tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at Chris. "You didn't hear it? There was singing, and--" He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, Chris saw that they were shining. "It was the most beautiful music I think I've ever heard."

Chris swallowed. Lamely, he said, "So it must not have been 'Riddle', then."

It got a weak laugh out of Joey, though, so he relaxed fractionally. The whole thing was starting to freak him out, and he wondered if he wasn't maybe going insane. Then again, if he was, he added to himself, at least it was an interesting psychotic break.

* * *

"How is he?" JC asked.

Chris sat down at the small table in JC's room and sighed. "Well, he's healing pretty fast, I mean, it's kinda nuts. I think in a couple more days it's all gonna be back to normal."

"That's good." Justin flung himself across the bed, and Lance, who had been stretched out on the floor doing some trig homework, gave him a glare; Justin's feet had narrowly missed his head. "Sorry," he muttered, then looked up at Chris. "So what, I mean, what are we going to do?"

"I wish I knew." Chris had only left Joey, who was sleeping again, after making Joey promise up and down that he would start screaming if anything like the previous night's experience happened again. He took a deep breath, aware that he must look like shit -- exhausted, drained from being up half the night -- and looked up at JC. "Something weird happened last night."

"Weird?" Lance gave up any pretense of doing his schoolwork and sat up, the curious look on his face matching JC's and Justin's. Raking a hand through his hair, Chris nodded and recounted it as much as he could, leaving out the fact that he and Joey had fallen asleep tangled up together, or what they'd been doing just prior to then. As he wound up by relating Joey's description of what it had felt like for him, Lance shook his head in a sort of disbelief, and Justin was sitting up now, hands propping his chin.

It was JC who blinked, finally, and said, "So it's-- OK, this can't sound any weirder than anything else that's already happened. I think he really is an angel and God's trying to call him home."

Chris felt a slow turning in his stomach. "No," he said. "No, that can't be, he can't--"

Lance rubbed a hand over his face, looking as sick as Chris felt, and said, "I don't know, Chris, it's kinda, everything's startin' to point that way."

"Maybe." JC's voice was hesitant, and Chris glanced up at him, wondering if he'd heard the panicked note in his protest and had guessed what it meant. "Maybe you should -- maybe we could find someone to ask. Like, a priest or something."

"I'm not leaving him," Chris said automatically and didn't care how it sounded. But Justin stood up.

"My momma, she met this guy, this American guy, last week, he's like one of these young priests? I guess he was at our show or something, and she heard his voice and turns out he's from Georgia, and anyway, uh, I'll ask her to call him and see if he'll come over." He gave Chris a brief smile, and Chris tried to let his gratitude show in the smile he gave back before Justin left the room.

* * *

Chris made the call, once Justin got the number from his mother, and it didn't take much persuading at all to get him to come over, once Chris had convinced him that he was who he claimed to be. Ryan Michaels sounded like a nice guy, friendly and talkative on the phone; Chris explained that they had a problem that needed an expert's advice, that it had to be seen in person, and Ryan agreed to stop by the hotel after classes.

He was, as Justin had said, a young man in his mid-twenties, average in appearance, brown-haired and slight of stature, dressed casually in jeans and a plaid shirt. Chris met him in the lobby, brushing aside Ryan's surprised look and ushering him towards the elevators. "You don't look like a priest," Chris had to comment on the ride up, and Ryan chuckled.

"I'm, well, I am. Ordained and all that, I'm just studying over here to get some more experience and things." Ryan shrugged, hands in his pockets. "It's such a relief to hear someone talking English, you know?"

Chris grinned. "Tell me about it."

They had decided -- Joey had insisted, really -- that Ryan see him alone, so Chris led him down the hall to the room. "I gotta warn you," he said as he put the key into the door, "this is. This is really pretty freaky."

"You don't need me to, uh, do an exorcism, do you?" Ryan looked worried, and Chris shook his head.

"No, it's actually kind of the opposite." Chris opened the door and stepped inside; after a hesitant moment, Ryan followed.

Joey's healing had continued to progress rapidly today, and he'd showered and put on jeans, but they couldn't find a shirt to fit him -- the wings were too close together in the back even for a muscle shirt, and the skin there was still tender -- so he remained shirtless, barechested. Chris was enjoying the outfit, he had to admit. Joey stood up, smiling, when they came in, and Ryan stopped stock still in the doorway, his eyes gone wide.

Chris gently tugged him out of the way and let the door close, watching the young priest for signs of shock. "I know," he said. "It's kinda."

"Kinda messed up," Joey agreed. "Uh, you're Ryan, right?"

"Yeah." That seemed to jar Ryan out of his speechless state. "Ryan Michaels, you're, uh, Joey Fatone."

"He's a fan," Chris said. Joey grinned and came over to shake his hand. The wings folded neatly down over his back, the upper curves just peeking over his shoulders.

Ryan shook hands automatically, then gave a little gasping laugh. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Joey gestured to a chair, and as Ryan sank down in it, he glanced at Chris. Nodding, Chris backed towards the door. "Let me know if you need anything," he said. Joey gave him a smile, and he reluctantly stepped out.

* * *

Chris wasn't listening for the sound of Joey's door opening. Not at all. He just happened to be leaning against the wall for the hell of it. He said as much to JC, and JC laughed and waved him off.

"Whatever, Kirkpatrick. You should have stayed."

"I promised I wouldn't," Chris said, glowering, though now he was wishing he hadn't. Just then, he heard the door open, and he leapt up -- narrowly missing the video games strewn over the floor, courtesy of Justin -- and tried not to run into the hallway.

He could see Ryan's back; the young man was heading rapidly for the elevator bank, and after a moment of indecision he took off after him, calling his name. Ryan didn't stop, though, not until he'd reached the elevators, and Chris caught up with him as he was pressing the button to call one.

Ryan gave him a sharp nod. "I'm sorry," he said. Chris shook his head in confusion.

"What, what do you mean?"

"I can't help your friend. I'm sorry." He stepped into the elevator, then, as it arrived, and, befuddled, Chris watched the doors close on him.

 _He seemed like a nice guy_ , he thought as he headed back down to their room, knocked on the door, and then fumbled for the key.

Inside, Joey was laying on his bed, on his side, eyes closed, looking more tired than ever. He didn't say anything, and for a moment Chris wondered if he was all right.

"Hey," he said, tentative, sitting down next to Joey.

"Hey," Joey replied without opening his eyes.

"You OK?"

Joey made a soft sound and rubbed his palm over his face. "Not really." He sighed, nearly rolled to his back -- then stopped himself with a little pained noise -- and settled for curling an arm under his head.

Chris let himself touch Joey, one hand gentle on Joey's arm. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"I have to go," Joey said, low and thick-voiced.

"What?!"

"He, he said. I'm being called and it's God's will and I have to go."

"Bullshit!" Chris said, making Joey jerk and laugh weakly. "Fuck that, man. I don't believe it. How can it -- they can't just take you away like that."

"That's what-- last night," Joey said. He sounded weary and small. "That's what almost happened."

Chris stood abruptly, the nervous tension working through him and winding him so tight that he had to do something to work it off. "This is nuts, Joey. You can't be -- I mean--" He cut himself off with a frustrated noise, raked a hand through his hair. "You're not an angel. You're just -- you're a guy, you're a human, you're Joey. Our Joey. My--" He stopped then, swallowing.

Pushing up to sit with his legs folded before him, Joey gave Chris a little knowing smile. "Your what?"

Chris looked down to where he was toeing the carpet; he could feel the flush rise to his cheeks. "Um. My boyfriend, I hope."

Joey reached out a hand, and Chris went back to the bed to sit down next to him. They sat in silence for a few moments before Chris cleared his throat. "Um. So. Why did he leave in a huff like that?"

"Oh." Joey grinned, so like his old self for a moment that Chris felt a pang. "I kinda -- pretty much told him what you just said. He was saying that angels are made to serve God, they're asexual, they can't love, all this crap." Joey snorted and Chris grinned, too, thinking of the many women who could attest otherwise in Joey's case. "And he was just going _on_ about how it's this great calling and I should go and talking about the glory of heaven and all this stuff -- God! So I told him God could go fuck Himself."

"No way," Chris laughed.

"Yeah. He -- uh, he didn't like that. And I told him it's bullshit anyway, especially saying angels can't love--" Joey broke off suddenly, squeezed Chris's hand. "So that was when he took off."

"We'll figure this out," Chris said softly. His tone lacked confidence, a quality of which he himself was sorely in need, but Joey brought his hand up and kissed his knuckles.

"Yeah. We will."

* * *

The visitation came that night.

Song again, stronger, and light flooding the room with a sudden shocking intensity; they gasped as one and broke apart, Joey rolling away from Chris with a theatrical moan. "What the--?!" he started to say, then froze mid-sentence.

Chris understood the feeling; he barely had the presence of mind to yank for the sheets, covering his nudity, a part of him comically comparing the situation to Adam and Eve after the apple, and he would have laughed at the absurdity, as well as the fact that he seemed to be overdosing on Biblical references lately, if he could have.

It wasn't a solid being, certainly nothing he could describe in normal terms; his eyes wanted to find something to see, to hold to, but there was only the strong, clear light. But it was more than that, an utterly real presence, so apparent that Chris knew he could put his hand out and touch it.

Whatever it was there for, though, it clearly didn't care about him. Its attention, if Chris could call it that, was entirely focused on Joey. Sitting back on his elbows, Joey wore a stunned look, his eyes wide, skin pallid in the unearthly light. A messenger of God, Chris thought dully, a real honest-to-fucking-God Voice from On High. He supposed he should be converted right about now, but all he could think was how fucked up it was.

It didn't stay for long; with a final flare of brightness, the presence disappeared, fading into darkness so quickly that the room was left black and startlingly quiet in its wake. Chris blinked dazzled eyes and groped for Joey's hand.

The room had gone still again, aside from the ringing of Chris's ears, before Joey spoke into the silence.

"They're calling me, Chris. They--"

"No!" Chris's bark was half anger, half frustration. "No, no, _fuck_ , they can't have you, they _can't_ \--"

"Chris," Joey said in a strangled tone. Chris realized he'd started bearing down on Joey's hand and guiltily eased up. Joey shook out his hand with a sigh.

"I've got twenty-four hours to choose," he said in a heavy voice. "Then they come back."

"Choose?" Chris tried not to let the hope show in his tone. "You get a choice?"

Joey nodded. "Either I go -- be a full, like, angel," and his voice took on a strange reverent quality at that, "or I stay here. This all -- I'd have to forget it all."

'Oh, shit.' "What do you mean, all?" Chris didn't think he wanted to hear the answer. Worse, he thought he might already know.

Joey's next words confirmed it. "I'd -- I'd be gone. No more 'N Sync, or, or anything. I'd just be in Florida with my parents, and I wouldn't remember a thing. Nothing we've done, or where we've been, or the guys, or. Or you." The words came out of him low, strained, with a visceral force that punched Chris square in the gut. His eyes had adjusted enough now that he could make out Joey's expression: bleak and dismal, his eyes dark in shadow, the wings curling protectively around his shoulders as if to shield him from the inevitable truth.

"Joey," Chris whispered.

"I know. I. What can I do, Chris? I can't, I can't lose you. Not now."

"I won't let you go." Chris reached for Joey, shaking suddenly, hands seeking blindly and finding Joey's face. He lurched in close, kissed him, fierce, desperate. The long feather edges fanned over his back and he moaned into Joey's open mouth.

"I love you," Joey said, over and over, as he rolled them over, bore Chris down to the mattress. "I love you, I love you." And Chris could only cry out, taking Joey into him, his shouts wordless prayers: _God, please don't take this from me_.

* * *

In the morning, Joey said quietly that he wanted to call his parents, so Chris climbed into the shower and then headed for Justin and Lance's room. Breakfast proceedings had already begun, but the loud clatter and conviviality fell quiet when Chris entered the room; he belatedly realized that his mood was showing, and forced a smile.

"Dude, you guys been talkin' about me or what?" he asked, sliding into a chair.

"Uh," Justin started. Lance elbowed him.

"How's Joey?" JC said, leveling a glare on his younger bandmates.

Chris blanched, staring down at the empty coffee mug on the table before him. "It's kind of. Um. I mean, he's healed, that's OK, but." He took a breath, feeling them leaning in to hear his next words, and spilled it all out as rapidly as he could: what Ryan had told Joey, the visitation, Joey's message, the fact that he'd have to make a choice before midnight tonight. When he was done, Lance's face had gone white beneath its fading tan, and Justin looked like he was going to be sick.

"They can't take him," he said in an obstinate voice. "They. They just _can't_."

"I know, God, believe me." Chris wanted to fall back on something funny, anything, to erase the helpless looks in his friends' eyes. "No one fuckin' hates this more than I do."

"What do we. Is there anything we can do?" JC asked, wiping his mouth. "Besides pray, I guess."

Lance levelled a look on Chris, who shook his head, feeling unnerved; Lance tended to be a little too perceptive for his own good, sometimes. "I think if there was anything, Chris would have done it already," he said lowly.

Chris stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back from the table. "I'm gonna go-- go check on him," he muttered, and none of the others stood to stop him.

* * *

The day passed in a long, deep silence. Chris knew he couldn't keep Joey to himself, but he wanted to, wanted to wrap him in his arms and hold on as tight as he could. But he let go, at least for a little while so that they could all sit together in a kind of solemn vigil. Justin brought in the game console, and they tried playing a little, but the mood was too dark to be lightened for long.

Joey finally curled up on the bed again, arms around his legs, the look in his eyes enough to pause the quiet conversation that had been going on. He drew a breath, then let it go, and Chris saw the nerves shaking him much the way his own gut was clenched with fear.

"Look, I have to tell you guys, I decided. I made up my mind already. I'm going," he said.

"No," JC said, "no, Joe--"

"I have to." Joey shook his head, resolute of face. "I can't live without remembering you guys, I can't-- I'd rather have the memory than nothing at all. And. It won't be so bad, I mean, it's gotta have its perks, right?" He tried for a smile, but it didn't even reach the corners of his mouth.

"Joey," Lance whispered.

"Will, will we be able to see you again?" Justin sounded so young that Chris had to curb an impulse to hug him.

"I don't know. I hope so." Joey looked down, and the wings sank around him, shivering. Sleek and beautiful they were, but Chris hated them. "I guess I'll have to see. But I don't, I don't think angels get to chill with their friends too much."

Justin stood up then, stepping over JC's outstretched legs to kneel on the bed, and pulled Joey into a tight hug. After a moment, Joey gasped and pressed his face into Justin's shoulder, but Chris was close enough to hear the words he whispered back: "Love you too, man." When Justin stepped back, his face was set in stone, and he headed for the door, presumably to give vent to his emotions in private.

"God," Lance said, and got up, taking his turn next. He held on to Joey longer, just long enough to make Chris's heart clench, and pulled back after a kiss on the cheek. "Never forget you, man, I promise." Then he stepped back, too, as if waiting for JC.

Chris had to look down, then; he couldn't witness this parting. It was bad enough hearing JC's hitched sob and the catch in Joey's voice. He stared at his feet until the door closed behind them, and then he got up, moving by instinct to Joey's bed, into Joey's arms.

"I don't want you to go," he said, barely able to speak, throat thick with emotion. "I don't."

"I know," Joey breathed against his ear. "I know."

* * *

They couldn't sleep, too wrought up by the awareness that this would be the last time they touched. Joey moved slowly over Chris, mouth warm on his, hands gliding easily down the length of Chris's body, caressing him everywhere, until Chris cried out and arched up, impossibly pliant beneath Joey's expert touch. Once he'd caught his breath, he returned the favor, pulling Joey to the edge of the bed and sinking to his knees between Joey's spread legs. The sounds Joey made were almost like music, Chris thought, and felt tears stinging his eyes.

He refused to say goodbye. He didn't want it to be an ending. He traced the curve of Joey's lip with an index finger, memorized the clean shape of his jaw, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the soft thickness of Joey's dark hair under his palm. "I love you," was all he could say, all he dared say, his voice raw as his heart.

The light came all too soon, the sourceless glow glimmering in the corner of the room, brightening steadily until it nearly hurt Chris's eyes. He wouldn't look away, though, as Joey stood, turned to press a last kiss to Chris's forehead. Naked, tall and lean, the wings curving down over his back almost to his waist, he was the most beautiful thing Chris had ever seen. Chris forced himself to keep looking, to imprint the image of Joey into his memory. Joey turned, walked steadily towards the glowing presence, and with each step the illumination grew brighter, brighter, until Chris had to shield his eyes against the impossible glare.

The last thing he saw was the light folding itself around Joey like wings. Then the room went dark, and when Chris shot out a hand and flipped on the light, he still had to blink against the spots in his eyes.

Joey was gone.

He slept only when exhaustion claimed him, when his grief had died out and staring at the wall turned into staring at the insides of his eyelids. When he woke, he saw JC in the bed opposite him, mouth open and spit on the pillow. It was so absurdly normal that he almost laughed, and then he remembered and the hilarity died unborn in his throat.

No one wanted to talk much the next day, so they stayed quiet, keeping the pretense that Joey was still sick in his room when Lou came by to check up on things. After he left, though, Lance sighed and muttered that they'd have to think of something to explain Joey's disappearance. That they'd have to find a replacement or something. JC hissed at him for bringing it up, for even daring to mention it, and Justin had to pull JC back. Chris didn't even notice the conversation; his mind was still too far away to think about it. He hoped Joey was all right.

After a while, he lay down in Joey's bed, pressing his face into the pillow to smell the last remnants of his scent, the strong musky aroma of him. It was like a signal; JC stood up, leaned over to give him an awkward hug, and then herded Justin and Lance out of the room. Chris felt distantly grateful. He closed his eyes, hitched the sheets up around his shoulders, and let exhaustion claim him.

* * *

It was a good dream; but then, Joey made any dream a good one. The backseat of a car, something nice and roomy so there was plenty of space to straddle Joey and lean over him, kissing his neck, rocking their groins together. Joey twined his fingers in Chris's hair and leaned up, mouth eager on his smooth jaw, and Chris moaned against Joey's throat.

"Baby," he gasped. "Miss you."

"Open your eyes," Joey said.

"No."

"It's OK. It's OK, Chris, I love you. Open your eyes and see me."

The light burned Chris's eyes, but he looked anyway, gazing into the unreal beauty shining from Joey's face, from the wings closing around them. _He's an angel. He's always been like this, and I never knew, I never saw. Not until it was too late_. Chris choked on his thoughts.

"Chris," Joey said again, though his mouth didn't move.

"I don't want to wake up. Don't make me."

He couldn't stop, though, once he'd started the rise from sleep, and he made an unhappy noise as he rolled over and caught up against something solid and warm. That woke him up all at once, with a startled thought: who the hell was in bed with him? Even after he looked up, blinking foggily, he couldn't quite comprehend it; he thought he must still be dreaming.

"Jesus!" he shouted and leapt, pushing a laughing Joey over onto his back and kissing him hard. A moment later he pulled back, remembering belatedly, the wings, the wings -- but Joey's back was as smooth and free of blemish as anyone's.

"It's really you," he said, softer, full of wonder. "I'm not dreaming, am I? You're back?"

Joey nodded, the smile on his own face huger than Chris thought he'd ever seen it. "It was. I'm still kind of confused about the details, but because I was-- because I went and made the choice of my own free will, I got to come back. I don't have to go and be an angel until I've lived out my life."

"With us," Chris said, hopeful, and Joey beamed.

"With you."

"Fuck!" Chris laughed, burying his face in Joey's neck and breathing him in deeply. "This is so great, so great..."

He'd just lifted his mouth to Joey's for another kiss when the door burst open and the others piled in, JC gasping something about, "We heard you screaming, what's--" The three of them stopped in the doorway, eyes wide and mouths fallen open, and Chris gave a little hysterical giggle as he looked over his shoulder at them.

"I think we have something to tell them," Joey said softly.


End file.
